


Birthday Cake

by dewinter



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dewinter/pseuds/dewinter
Summary: Dele can have little a birthday cake, as a treat.
Relationships: Dele Alli/Eric Dier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	Birthday Cake

“I’m not being funny,” Eric says irritably – Dele’s still catching his breath, slumped on his front with his thighs still trembling; he’s only half listening – “but it’s _my_ birthday. And I played, like, nearly a full ninety yesterday. Why am I the one doing all the work?”

Dele props himself up on his elbows. “Dunno,” he says dumbly, partly to annoy Eric, and partly because that’s pretty much all he can muster. “Coulda just stopped, if you wanted.”

Eric slaps him lightly on the backside as he drags himself back up the bed. “Didn’t want you whinging at me all day. Do a job properly, yeah?”

Dele rolls over onto his back. He’s got come all over the sheets, and he just _knows_ Eric’s going to make him strip the bed and load the washing machine, and not just leave it for the maid, because Eric is tedious and noble like that, and it makes him mad, and also makes him want to jizz all over Eric’s house just to piss him off.

He just lies there for a moment, watching the morning arrive, feeling his breathing steady, feeling Eric propped up against the headboard next to him, feeling him watching him. He reaches out a hand without looking and pokes him in the closest bit of flesh. Somewhere near the hip, from the sound Eric makes.

“You got spunk all over my sheets again?” Eric says, poking him back.

Dele turns his head and glances at him. Eric’s mouth is red and wet, and he catches Dele looking at him and wipes it hastily with his hand, going a bit pink. “Fuck off,” Dele says, and this time his fingers are lighter on Eric’s hip – more of a stroke than a poke. “Told you I was gonna come. Not my fault you’re too dumb to listen.”

Eric laughs. He looks good, his chest all blotchy – and maybe he’s struggling to catch his breath, too, from the way his voice catches in his throat when he tries to say something. He grins instead, one of those bright bright Eric smiles that Dele lives for _hours_ on, and shuffles into Dele’s space.

“Fuck off, go and – fucking – brush your teeth, I’m not kissing you when you’ve just –“

“So ungrateful, you,” Eric says, rolling over Dele with uncharacteristic grace and hopping off the bed.

“Didn’t they ever teach you nothing in sex ed?” Dele says, throwing an arm over his head and wriggling deeper into bed. Stellar timing. Day off, and nothing to do but lounge about insulting Eric between and occasionally during orgasms.

Eric turns on his way to the en suite. “Don’t pretend you did anything but muck about with condoms and get grossed out about periods in sex ed.”

Dele pulls a face. Eric rolls his eyes. Dele pretends not to be impressed at the sight of him, naked and indignant and twenty-six, gargling Listerine with a hand on his hip.

“Hurry up,” he calls lazily. His dick twitches. Hours ahead of them, they’ve got.

He hears Eric spit, and rinse again. “Told you, it’s my birthday.” He emerges from the bathroom and wags a finger at him. “You’re gonna have to pull your weight, you know.”

Dele flicks the Vs at him. “M’hungry,” he says, and shuffles his legs slowly, because he’s not above manipulating Eric whenever the opportunity arises.

“Wanna make me a birthday breakfast?” Eric asks, even though he already knows the answer. He doesn’t even bother climbing back into bed. Dele grins and shakes his head.

Dele hears Eric grumbling all the way downstairs, clattering through the kitchen cupboards, and grumbling all the way back up again, and all the time he’s thinking about how they’re alone in the house, stark bollock naked, moving in each other’s space like they were born for it – easier than football, sometimes; that’s how naturally it comes. Patterns on the pitch, and patterns in here, too: it’s easy, and voiceless, and Eric’s spending his birthday eating him out and making him breakfast, and somehow their two bodies are holding all this love, and not burning up from the inside. It’s a fucking miracle.

“Can’t believe you’re too lazy to make me breakfast,” Eric says, back again, kneeling carefully on the bed so as not to spill the plates he’s carrying.

Dele sits up and grabs his eagerly. “Who still gets a Colin the Caterpillar cake?” he says, shovelling half the slice into his mouth.

“Who _doesn’t_ get a Colin the Caterpillar cake?” Eric says, getting crumbs all in his beard. Dele leans over and kisses him, halfway through his mouthful. Chocolate and Listerine. Eric sighs contentedly, his hand on Dele’s knee.

“I’m telling the gaffer you fed me cake for breakfast,” Dele says, after some more kissing and some more cake.

Eric flicks his thigh. It stings in the best way. “I’m telling the gaffer you’re a selfish bastard in bed.”

Dele laughs. “Pass us my phone.”

They sit side by side, their ankles touching. The morning fully here now.

“Signed that Benfica kid,” Dele says idly. Eric grunts.

“Club said happy birthday,” Dele adds after another moment, still scrolling.

“Nice of them,” Eric says. “Be nice if my boyfriend said it too.” Eric says things like that, sometimes, and they make Dele’s stomach tighten, and he’s never sure if it’s a good or a bad feeling.

He wriggles closer to Eric, and nudges him until Eric puts his arm round his shoulder. “Could do. Might mess with my corporate identity though.”

Eric sniffs. “Stop listening to your brother, he’s full of shit.”

“Look, Toby’s wished you happy birthday, isn’t that enough?”

“Spose it’ll have to be.”

Dele looks up at him. “Are you really fussed about it? If you want, I can –”

“Don’t be daft, I’m sat right next to you. Just say it to me now.”

“Thought I did already.”

Eric tucks his finger under Dele’s chin so he can tilt his face up. “Del, telling me you’re gonna kill me if I stop, and then spaffing all over my sheets isn’t exactly _many happy returns._ ”

Dele grins, and kisses Eric lightly. “Is it not?”

“No, it’s not.” Eric’s whispering, but his tone is firm. He’s going to be a captain one day, like, a proper one. First choice. Someone people listen to - maybe even Dele.

Dele pushes his plate and his phone aside, and he’s probably sending crumbs flying everywhere, but he’s in Eric’s lap and Eric’s arms are around him and Eric’s twenty-six, and here, and _his._

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if Dele will _insist_ on not publicly wishing Eric a happy birthday, then I can't really be held accountable for my actions.


End file.
